The Wayfarers by Rupert Brooke

Is it the hour? We leave this resting-place
Made fair by one another for a while. 
Now, for a god-speed, one last mad embrace; 
The long road then, unlit by your faint smile. 
Ah! the long road! and you so far away!
Oh, I’ll remember! but … each crawling day 
Will pale a little your scarlet lips, each mile 
Dull the dear pain of your remembered face. 

…Do you think there’s a far border town, somewhere, 
The desert’s edge, last of the lands we know,
Some gaunt eventual limit of our light, 
In which I’ll find you waiting; and we’ll go 
Together, hand in hand again, out there, 
Into the waste we know not, into the night?